


misery loves company

by silverkatana



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, I'm Sorry, M/M, i don't know where this came from, iwaoi - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:53:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24108550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverkatana/pseuds/silverkatana
Summary: in a world where sadness lives and happiness kills, all oikawa's ever wanted to do was smile.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	misery loves company

**Author's Note:**

> i apologise in advance

Sadness is the only way to survive.

He casts his eyes over the landscape of people, moving in monochromatic blurs around him - all wear the same hollow expression on their faces, empty-eyed and jaws tightened with a harsh cold. He scuffs the edge of his shoe against the grey of the pavement, watching as the flowers wilt against the cloud-shrouded sky.

He’s used to it, a world void of happiness. It’s the only way to stay alive, after all. He’s lost his friends too many times, watching them trade their sanity for smiles, watching as their smiles cracked after too long, watching as the soul faded from their bodies the same time their happiness did.

Nowadays, he thinks that perhaps this - this frozen mask of vacancy, this deep abyss of blank nothingness - is better. It’s better to cry than to laugh; you break your heart, but it’s in exchange for your soul. 

He does it too, because he’s scared. As he paces down the colourless streets, he lets his own practised masquerade settle upon his face, refining his features into a hauntingly vacant stare.

The roads are familiar. He’s been walking down this route ever since he was a teenager, and the world around him has been grey for as long as he can remember. Maybe once - perhaps a long time ago, it wasn’t so painted in these bleak hues, but he dares not try to recall for fear of a smile coming upon his lips.

He bows his head, mimicking the bent, haggard posture of the majority of the pedestrians, hurrying down the uneven pathway until he reaches his destination. Slipping into the relatively narrow alley and following the winding steps, he breaks into a jog until he arrives before a door.

On the outside, the house looks uninhibited, abandoned almost. Past the old, drawn curtains lies a dark blanket of black, and the houseplants lining the windowsill have long wilted and turned a lifeless shade of ash. Even as he puts his ear to the door, he hears nothing, not even the shuffle of footsteps, not a breath.

The doorknob is cold to the touch, and he feels a shiver run up his spine as he twists it carefully. The door creaks open, unwillingly giving way as he steps inside, his footsteps sounding too loud against the dust-laden floors.

He knows the place well enough to walk down the long corridors without needing the light, running his fingers against the walls lightly as he walks. It’s been a while, but it’s all so familiar still. He doesn’t mind the tears that bubble in his throat as he reminisces; sadness isn’t something to be afraid of.

“Hello?” he calls out. His voice echoes back to him. Squinting, he makes out a dim light, and a sense of relief washes over him. Just like always.

He opens the door, seeing what he’s always seen -  _ he’s _ sitting there, brown hair messy and uncombed, his eyes unfocused, still on the couch and unregistering of everything around him.

“Oikawa,” he tries, and there’s a pause, a silence that hangs thick between them, and for that moment he’s afraid, he really is, because Oikawa’s eyes are almost  _ too _ blank,  _ too _ void of anything at all. And for that moment he’s afraid, he really is, that Oikawa has succumbed too, that he’s let his soul dissolve piece by piece.

“Oikawa!” He strides forward, biting down the anxiety rising in his voice. A shoulder push, a ruffling of his chocolate-shaded hair.

Oikawa turns his head, and their eyes meet.

A smile.

“Iwa-chan,” Oikawa acknowledges cheerfully, the corners of his lips curved upwards. 

Iwaizumi can’t help the alarm that creeps into his tone. “Stop smiling. I come here all the time. You shouldn’t be so happy to see me.”

Oikawa reaches up, and with an unexpectedly strong tug, drags Iwaizumi onto the sofa with him. “But I am,” he replies simply, and Iwaizumi sucks in a breath.

Oikawa brings colour to his life.

His eyes, warm and shining amidst the monochromatic world; his hair, tangled in Iwaizumi’s fingers, a shade of brown he’s never been more glad to see. And Oikawa’s laughter, ringing out all around him, painting the grey world in colours he barely even knew existed - bright, vivid, beautiful.

And he has never been more afraid.

“Stop, stop,” he tries again, patting Oikawa’s shoulder as he untangles himself from Oikawa’s grasp. “You know that it’s not good.” 

He hopes Oikawa doesn’t hear the extent of fear quavering within his words. 

Out of their social circle, Oikawa had always been the most exuberant, exuberant to the point of rebellion. Amidst the stone-faced crowd, he’s always been the one wearing the brightest smile on his face, the only one unafraid of his own happiness in a world encumbered by unhappiness.

Iwaizumi has been by Oikawa’s side for as long as his memory allows him. And over the years, little by little, he’s seen the smile stretching wider across Oikawa’s face, and the light die bit by bit from Oikawa’s eyes.

Volleyball. Iwaizumi wonders how long it’s been since Oikawa has played it. He doesn’t think Oikawa has left the house, really, not since the day Iwaizumi destroyed his last ball.

He still remembers that day. It wasn’t too long ago; it was autumn, and Oikawa was especially insistent on playing volleyball. Volleyball had always been his favourite past-time, after all, ever since he was a young kid barely having the strength to spike a ball. He once dreamt of becoming a professional volleyball player, even, but he lived in a world where realising dreams was a dangerous thing.

Oikawa’s smile had always been the single-most thing that brought colour to Iwaizumi’s life, over and over and over again. Over the years, he had relented repeatedly to Oikawa’s requests to play volleyball, but he was forced to bear witness to seeing the light die quicker and quicker from Oikawa’s effervescent gaze. 

He didn’t want to lose Oikawa. He didn’t want to lose the only thing that made his soul sing a little on the inside, even if it meant it had to be at the cost of Oikawa’s happiness.

So that day, when Oikawa tugged at his sleeve and begged him to go out for a short game, he did the only thing he could; he grabbed a knife from Oikawa’s kitchen and stuck it right through the ball, forcing a hole to form, and he watched the smile fade from Oikawa’s fade as the ball deflated and turned into a flat mass of material.

Oikawa was unhappy that day.

He had felt terrible, of course he did, but there was nothing he could do about it. After all, both of their sadness was far safer than their happiness.

“It’s not a crime to be happy,” Oikawa tells him, and he’s taken aback at the gentleness simmering in Oikawa’s words. He turns his head, and Oikawa smiles up at him, gaze soft, his hair falling in loose strands across his face.

Iwaizumi feels as though he’s been struck through the chest with a knife.

Oikawa’s eyes aren’t as colourful anymore.

“Stop,” he whispers, shaking his head, and he tears himself away from Oikawa’s grip. “Stop smiling, Oikawa. I don’t want to lose you too.”

Oikawa sits up, a more serious expression settling upon his features. Relief courses through Iwaizumi’s veins.

“You make me happy,” Oikawa says quietly, and his words settle like dust between them; they’re light, gentle, but they bother Iwaizumi to the core. “Selling my soul… If it means I can make happy memories with you, I think it’s better than spending all of eternity trapped in a world run by sadness, don’t you think?”

Iwaizumi shakes his head mutely, rubbing away the tears that threaten to agglomerate in the corners of his eyes. “You’ve seen what happens to people when they’re happy. They leave the world; they leave everyone who’s ever loved them behind. I don’t want… I don’t want to do that to people.” His bottom lip trembles against his will, and he bites down on it. “Even if two people are happy together, what’s the point if they have to say goodbye to each other so soon? There isn’t an afterlife for them to see each other again.”

“Even so.” Oikawa reaches for Iwaizumi and brings him closer, and Iwaizumi can’t find the strength in him to resist. “I’d rather live in this short happiness than spend an eternity trapped in a long sorrow.”

_ But if it’s an eternity with you, I don’t think it’ll be too bad _ , Iwaizumi wants to say, but can’t, and instead settles for shaking his head in disagreement.

“You don’t have to agree with me,” Oikawa says, the familiar - and excruciatingly worrying - cheerfulness back in his tone. “But at least for this one moment, allow me my happiness. Just this day. Okay?”

Oikawa brings his lips to Iwaizumi’s, soft at first, and Iwaizumi feels himself melting into Oikawa’s touch, his eyelids flitting closed. He feels the curve of Oikawa’s lips against his own, a smile that he’s long committed to memory. 

“I promise,” Oikawa whispers against his skin, “Just give me this last day of happiness, and I won’t ask for it anymore.”

Iwaizumi pulls back to search Oikawa’s gaze, still so ebullient, radiant amidst the darkness. He can’t bring himself to refuse anymore;  _ just one last day _ .

“Okay.”

Oikawa’s smile widens. It makes Iwaizumi’s heart hurt beyond his own comprehension. “Let’s play volleyball,” he says. “For the last time, really, I promise. If you want, I’ll destroy it after we play.”

Iwaizumi’s heart plummets even more. “You bought a new one?”

“I did,” Oikawa admits easily, the corners of his eyes crinkling in mild sheepishness. “I haven’t played since, though. Trust me. You’ve come to my house nearly every day - I’ve not left, you know that.”

Iwaizumi lets out a fluttering sigh. It does nothing to remove the heaviness weighing deep in his chest. “Fine. The last time.”

Their footsteps are loud in the silence of the night as Oikawa leads the way to the unused outdoor field that they’ve always used as their location to play; the sky is a layer of midnight black, streaked with the faintest lines of ebony grey, and the last of the office workers are beginning to filter off the streets and into their houses.

“It’s late,” Iwaizumi comments, squinting up at the sky. “What time are we going to be done? One?”

Oikawa shrugs, carefree. “Maybe.”

Iwaizumi sighs again, but relents anyway, feeling the familiar material of the volleyball beneath his palms as Oikawa tosses to him. They fall into a regular rhythm, and it’s hard to miss the grin spread across Oikawa’s lips with every contact his fingers make with the ball.

Iwaizumi’s heart clenches in his chest. He really is happy.

It makes him smile, allowing the faintest shreds of joy to blossom in some crevice of his emotions. He knows he shouldn’t, but he can afford a little bit of happiness. A passing smile won’t kill him.

They play until the world goes silent all around them, everyone fast asleep in the embrace of their tortured loneliness, until they lose track of time and he no longer knows, nor cares, whether it’s one, two, three in the morning, until his hands ache from spiking the ball and sweat runs down his skin and soaks through his shirt even in the chill of the night.

“Let’s stop now,” he manages to pant out, and Oikawa nods, the exhaustion visible in the way he bends over and gasps for air with every breath. Despite the tiredness radiating off him in waves, though, Iwaizumi senses the bounce in Oikawa’s step as he leads the way home.

It makes Iwaizumi a little sad to think that this will be the last time he’ll see such cheer in Oikawa’s every movement.

Oikawa opens the door, not bothering to switch the lights on; both of them know their way around well enough with them off. Iwaizumi is thankful that Oikawa’s house has two bathrooms, and he wastes no time in showering after grabbing Oikawa’s spare clothes.

The clock reads two in the morning by the time he steps into Oikawa’s bedroom, and he distantly hears Oikawa singing (a little off-pitch, if he may add) while blow-drying his hair. He doesn’t know whether to smile or sigh; he really is enjoying his last day of happiness to the fullest.

Oikawa steps into his bedroom, blinking at the sight of Iwaizumi already perched upon his bed, before shooting him a wide grin. “You’re fast.”

“You’re just slow,” Iwaizumi counters, wrinkling his nose. “Hurry up and let’s sleep, it’s late.”

“Okay.” Surprisingly, Oikawa complies, settling down in his usual spot and patting the pillow next to him. “Come here, then.”

Iwaizumi shifts so he’s lying next to Oikawa, not minding as Oikawa immediately takes it as his cue to entangle his limbs with Iwaizumi’s, nuzzling his head into Iwaizumi’s chest. The feeling of Oikawa’s skin against his is comforting, really. It’s warm, just like Oikawa. It reminds him that he’s still alive.

“Goodnight, Iwa-chan.”

He hears the smile in Oikawa’s voice, so he fights to keep the tears out of his own.

“Goodnight, Oikawa.”

Iwaizumi had forgotten about Oikawa’s old, tattered blinds, and his usual routine of using cloth to temporarily block out morning light, so he’s rudely awoken by the sun trying to burn his retina behind his closed eyelids.

With a groan of annoyance, he rolls over, expecting to crash into Oikawa. The man sleeps like he’s the dead; how is he never bothered by the light?

Only that this time, he feels nothing.

His eyes snap open, taking in his surroundings. It’s still remotely dark, save the persistent sunlight trickling in through broken blinds. Nothing is out of place - the flowerless vase still sits by the bedside, the books that Oikawa never bothered to read sitting in the corner, his unironed sweaters in a pile by the wardrobe.

But Oikawa is gone.

Iwaizumi’s heart is in his throat in a second, and he forgets how to breathe.

Oikawa never leaves his bed first thing in the morning, not if he stays overnight; heck, Oikawa isn’t usually even  _ awake _ at this time.

Ignoring the pain shooting through his ankle as he half-falls, half-jumps out of bed, Iwaizumi bolts out of Oikawa’s bedroom, eyes wild and searching, throwing the door to his living room open, almost expecting him to be sitting before the television in the dim light, laughing at him for being so panicked.

But he isn’t there.

Every corner of the house. Iwaizumi searches and searches, getting more frantic with every room checked. Barely pausing to grab the keys, he turns and runs out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

He runs and runs, runs until sweat runs into his eyes and mixes with his tears and he can’t see a centimetre in front of him. He runs, not caring who he bumps into, not caring who glances at him like he’s lost his mind, not caring if he stumbles onto the road and cars honk angrily at his wavering figure.

The park they used to go to in the evenings when they were younger. It’s empty. The road leading to the little convenience store where Oikawa would always buy his supply of milk bread. The cashier peers at him through sleepy, confused eyes as he bursts in, partially in a state of frenzy, only to nearly drop to his knees when he sees that the store is void of people.

His legs are screaming at him to stop, but his thoughts are screaming louder in his head, enough to drown out all other emotions, enough to spur him on to keep running, running until he reaches their makeshift volleyball court.

In the centre, where they always played, is the volleyball they used the night before, stabbed through and deflated. Just as Oikawa promised; he had destroyed it.

And Iwaizumi almost expects Oikawa to stroll up next to him, a smile brighter than morning sunshine settling on his lips effortlessly, telling him he’d fulfilled his promise. He almost expects Oikawa to drape his arm around his shoulders, telling him he’d just gone for a run, apologising for making him worried. He almost expects Oikawa to materialize next to him, tugging on his sleeve as he always did, laughing and colouring his world with that familiar shade of  _ warm _ , eyes alight with mirth as he drags him home and tells him to stop worrying so much.

But the chocolate-shaded hair, lightly tanned skin, the old green sweater, the small smile resting on curved lips.

Iwaizumi can recognise that anywhere. 

He falls to his knees before the still figure, not caring even as they scuff against the rough ground and begin to bleed, leaving crimson streaks across the uneven ground. They trail along the cracks in the ground until they blend with the darker, dried red on the glinting silver of the knife.

And he almost expects Oikawa to wake up, to wipe the blood off his lips, to laugh loudly and proclaim it all a prank. He almost expects Oikawa to hop up from where he lies, grab the volleyball, and ask him to play one more game. He almost expects Oikawa to hug him tight, smiling against his skin, promising him he won’t go anywhere. 

Oikawa doesn’t.

Oikawa doesn’t wake up.

Iwaizumi begins to cry.

He cries until Oikawa’s features go blur in his vision, until he finds it hard to breathe, until he can hear his heartbeat in his head and until he collapses to the ground beside Oikawa’s unmoving body, not caring as the ground cuts lines into his arms and breaks his skin.

He hopes he doesn’t wake up, either.

* * *

He wakes up screaming words that refuse to leave his throat, tears wet on his cheeks and his breaths coming rushed and uneven.

“Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi, listen to me.” He turns towards the source of the noise, gaze wild and fleeting, until it lands on Hanamaki.

“Hanamaki,” he rasps out, reaching out and clinging to the hem of Hanamaki’s shirt like it’s his lifeline. Hanamaki lets him, even when it tears a little. “Hanamaki, I - I saw him. I saw Oikawa. He-”

“I know,” Hanamaki utters gently, but Iwaizumi’s tears only come faster. “There was nothing you could do, Iwaizumi.”

His shoulders are beginning to shake, his words falling out broken and breathless. “I killed him,” he whispers, “He wanted to be happy, and I let him.” He still remembers it all - the smile on Oikawa’s face, the light in his eyes even when the world was all grey around them. The laughter all around them, the warmth of Oikawa’s touch as they fell asleep. “I didn’t know - I didn’t know that he was already hanging off the final threads.”

The tears fall onto the white of the bedsheets. He distantly wonders where he is. The hospital? It doesn’t even matter anymore.

“I didn’t know,” he breathes out, “That when he promised me it would be the last time, it was because he already knew he was going to die.”

Hanamaki watches him mutely for a minute or so, uncertain of what to say, before finally probing, his voice quiet, “What are you going to do now?”

Iwaizumi smiles. It’s a sad, bitter one. “I used to entertain the idea of being happy with him and then leaving this world after a short while, but I always liked the idea of just staying with him here forever. And now…”

He turns to look out of the window. People continue to walk by, their faces the same mask of impassiveness as always.

The world is so devoid of colour without Oikawa.

“... Even if I wanted to be happy, I can’t.” He turns to Hanamaki and smiles, and wonders if his friend can see how forced it sits on his features. “Not when the reason for my happiness is already gone.”


End file.
